


Here, the Way We Are

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Depression, Happy Ending, Homesickness, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: Sam leaves, Dean waits, and the American Midwest numbs like Novocaine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly inspired by Break Down Here by Julie Roberts and September by Daughtry.

Burkittsville is half a country away by the time the beater car Sam lifted breaks down. The rattle started two states ago, but Sam’s never been all that great with mechanics so he’d ignored it except to pray that it’d last a little longer. At least the radio worked, picking up stations loud and clear as the miles rolled away behind him. He drowned out his own thoughts by cranking up the punk rock and alternative bands Dean’s always hated, anything but classic rock to keep his brother off his mind.

 

Three hours out from Sioux Falls - and Sam didn’t even let himself think about why he was headed that way, what could be waiting for him there - the car finally sputters its last, fluids leaking out all over the road. Rather than waiting to pay for the tow for what is surely a dead car, Sam grabs his backpack and duffel out of the back and hits the road. 

 

It’s not easy, trying to hitch hike when you’re as tall and big as Sam, but there’s a person or two brave enough to stop for him; he’s lucky, maybe, that he looks clean and friendly and he thanks the couple of people who do give him rides profusely. The last couple get him into town, dropping him off at the gas station before they head north; after all, that’s not where he’s headed, so here will have to do. 

 

There’d been a handful of change in one of the car’s cupholders, and Sam had some of his own cash from poker games and pool in his pocket. The first goes toward a call to Bobby, who just sighs tiredly and says he’ll head over and for Sam to stay put. The rest gets him food and water, just enough to fill his belly for now. Clearly, he’s not the first transient to come through here, and folks mostly ignore him as he waits outside the gas station for Bobby to arrive. 

 

The older man rolls up in a rumbling truck, yanking Sam into a quick hug before cuffing him ‘round the head. “Your brother called. Said you took off to God knows where. You could’ve at least  _ called _ before you got stranded, idjit.” 

 

Sam tries not to look guilty as he shrugs, but clearly Bobby’s got a read on him. 

 

“I don’t know what the hell is going on with you two, but I ain’t takin’ sides, you hear? Now get in the dam truck.” 

 

They fuel up and head out, Sam feeling a little of the tension bleeding from his shoulders now that he’s not alone. Bobby keeps idle talk going between them, clearly set on avoiding the elephant in the room, and Sam’s just fine with that. He’s more relieved when the Impala is noticeably absent from the Salvage Yard - not that Dean really could’ve beat him here, considering the head start he figures he got, but it’s still a weight off his mind. 

 

“Dean said he’ll be another week or so. Got that job to finish back in Maryland.” Sam figures Bobby must be a mind reader;  as always, the older man is spot on, saying more without saying hardly a thing. “C’mon. Got some roast in the crock pot, should be done soon.” 

 

The scent of cooking meat and vegetables makes Sam’s mouth water; anything home cooked, even Bobby’s simple fare, is better than living on fast food and gas station sandwiches. Sam leaves his bag by the door, a clear sign to Bobby that he doesn’t plan to stay long. The older man accepts it with only a look, sadness and worry combined with resignation. 

 

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” Bobby says quietly as they dig into the roast. “Just . . . take care of yourself, alright?” 

 

“Yeah, Bobby. I will. I’m sorry that you’re kind of. In the middle of all this.” It’s hard for Sam to meet Bobby’s eyes; he hates putting the older man in this position, but they have so few friends these days that - when they’re not able to turn to each other - the brothers’ choices of help are limited. 

 

He sleeps like hell, alone in the room he and Dean have shared since they were kids. It’s too quiet without Dean’s soft snores, the bed too big and too cold without Dean’s heat curled up next to him. Sam’s tempted to leave before Bobby gets up, but that feels a little too cold. Instead, he carefully follows the directions on the box mix in the cupboard and puts together a breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon.  

 

“You’re leavin’ huh?” Bobby stumbles in, pouring himself a cup of strong, black coffee; clearly, Sam’s not the only one who didn’t sleep well. “Can you tell me where you’re goin’?” 

 

“I dunno yet,” Sam slides a plate in front of Bobby before taking his own seat. “I’ll call when I do, if you want.” 

 

“I’d appreciate it. I’ll keep it to myself, it that helps, but somebody should know where you are, Sam.” 

 

It’s not a bad deal. After all, Dean’s less likely to try to track Sam down if he knows that Bobby knows Sam is safe. 

 

“Yeah. I’ll call, I promise.” 

 

Bobby lends him a truck from the lot; it’s an older model, but runs like a dream and Sam chokes up just a little as he thanks Bobby and gives him a hug goodbye. Interstates aren’t his favorite, but that’s where he steers the truck on his way out of Sioux Falls. He doesn’t want to go far, not really; just someplace quiet, somewhere without all the of the mess and confusion. 

 

It’s just Sam’s luck that - out in the South Dakota prairie - the only station he can pick up plays nothing but old country songs. He feels a bit of bitter annoyance when he finds himself relating to the heartsick lyrics woven between steel guitars. 

 

It’s been six months since Sam last saw Dean. He’d bounced from town to town until he’d landed in this little podunk in western South Dakota. It was close enough to Bobby that Sam could seek the old man’s help if needed and middle-of-nowhere enough that Dean probably wouldn’t be rolling through anytime soon. Better yet, there were no real cases around that Sam could find, nothing to draw any hunter’s attention. 

 

The place is peaceful, as much as small towns are. Excitement comes in the forms of neighborly gossip, in the storm that rolled through last week, and in the upcoming county fair. Only one lonely patrol car makes slow circuits through the streets at any given time, and the county sheriff is just as likely to be found drinking coffee out at the sale barn as he is to be in his office at the station. 

 

Sam nods politely as he rings up Edna’s purchases, not entirely sure he’s grasping the extent of her ramblings, but she seems as satisfied enough as she heads out the door with her hands full. Her receipt and bag are left behind on the counter, like usual, and he crumples one up to throw in the garbage and stuffs the other next to the till to reuse later. He leans sideways against the counter with a sigh, wondering if he should go check on the couple who were perusing garden chemicals earlier when he hears a snort behind him. 

 

“She’s somethin’ else, ain’t she?” Trudy says mildly, plunking down a couple cases of ammunition on the counter. “Old Edna. You’re pretty good with her, though. Still not sure why you even bother to try baggin’ her things.” 

 

A wry grin twists Sam’s lips as the wanders over, shrugging noncommittally as he picks up the old tag gun and twisting the knobs to click the right numbers into place while Trudy wanders off. He’s got them both tagged and ready to go by the time Jason and Ana come up with canning supplies in their arms. He shakes his head at the enthusiastic newlyweds, taking in their excited chatter about their first garden has done so well and watching them go with a soft smile. Their lives are so simple here, so pleasant and straightforward. Sam’s jealous, in a way; grateful, in another, for the slow but steady acceptance he’s been gaining by being a normal part of people’s daily routines. 

 

The afternoon drags on, a slow trickle of customers in and out that never really picks up. Main street is empty save for a few cars down at the grocery store by the time Sam clocks out. He slams the door of his clunker pick up truck, sending Trudy a wave as he carefully backs out and drives back to the motel he’s staying in. 

 

The Annex isn’t much to speak of, but it’s part of the only place in town. Sam rolls into the parking lot carefully, sliding into place next to the beat up Corolla that belongs to 8 and killing the engine. Inside is blissfully cool after the hot interior of the truck; if nothing else, the small window air conditioner and blackout drapes go a long way to keeping the room cool. Leftover lasagne (courtesy of Trudy’s daughter, Laura) gets popped in the microwave and Sam flops onto his back for the handful of minutes it will take the microwave to heat the food to an acceptable temperature. 

 

His mind feels fuzzy in this place. Like there should be more beneath the surface, like the thirst for revenge or the thrill of the hunt or, hell, even the need for his brother should be driving him down the road or keeping him up late. But the only things that continue to haunt him are memories of Jess burning on the ceiling and of the image of the Impala leaving him on that dusty roadside in Illinois. Those he pushes down forcefully, leaving his mind carefully blank. It’s strange, worrisome if Sam thinks too hard on it, so he doesn’t. 

 

The ding of the microwave drags him out of bed, and he eats in that same haze, washing the dish out in the tiny kitchenette sink so he can take it back tomorrow. He lays back down and flicks the TV on, flipping through channels disinterestedly. He falls asleep to the sounds of the 10 o’clock news, resting fitfully as fire and tail lights flit across his dreams. 

 

* * *

 

Days float from one to the next in a lazy summer haze. Sam picks up an extra shift on his days off, grateful for the overtime that will put a little extra money in his pockets. Trudy’s got her hands full trying to get her share of the fair organising done and helping Laura get ready for the Independence Day rodeo. It’s easy enough running the store on his own, with most of the town as tied up as Trudy is. People dash in and out for the odds and ends of things they’d forgotten or things they’d ordered weeks ago in  preparation. Some are kind enough to remind him that everyone’s welcome, and a few of the older ladies who’ve taken a shine to him pointedly invite him to the ice cream social on Saturday. He’ll go, more likely than not, if only to make a good showing; better to fit in than stand out, after all. 

 

It’s a Wednesday like any other when he overhears a conversation that makes his heart skip a beat, and he loses his rhythm in counting back change to the customer at the till. 

 

“ . . . real nice car, too, Dennis, you oughta take a look at ‘er. Classic Impala.” 

 

“That so? Think he’s tryin’ to sell her?” 

 

“Dunno about that. Guy that’s drivin’ her’s not from around here. Says he’ll only be around a day or so before headin’ out.” 

 

Sam startles when the customer in front of him clears her throat, and he hurriedly apologizes and finishes counting back her change. The other patrons have changed the tack of their conversation by the time they drift back to the front, and Sam can’t find it in him to ask about the car or its owner. 

 

_ It can’t be him, _ he thinks to himself.  _ Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. There’s no way.  _

 

_ There’s no way, _ he tells himself later, when the deep rumble of an engine rolls past his room, leaving an ache in his chest that’s too much like homesickness for comfort. 

 

* * *

 

Susan’s looking for a new bartender/bouncer, and Sam’s bored enough that he applies. Sure, his size puts him in the running easily, but he’s sure that Trudy’s input has more than a little to do with his getting the job. Susan’s an older gal, no nonsense enough to remind him of Ellen, but without the hunter’s grit. He really only needs to learn to pour the basics of drinks, and can pop the top off a bottle of beer as fast as Emma, the other bartender. 

 

Sam hasn’t decided if it’s an upside that he’s actually allowed to take the drinks people buy for him. Some nights, he’ll turn them down, but Saturday’s are a little harder. That’s how he winds up shit-faced, walking up the hill to the annex - thank God for small towns - when his phone rings. 

 

“Sam?” Dean. Sam’s head spins a little, words catching in his throat as he tries to reply. 

 

It’s his luck that his phone goes dead, then; service here is spotty at best, draining the battery fast. Sam fumbles to plug it in when he gets inside his room, but there’s no answer when he calls back. 

 

* * *

 

Sam tries to forget the pained, lost sound he remembers - if foggily - from Dean’s one and only phone call. He throws himself into his work, picking up shifts at the bar when he’s off at the store; it earns him a raise from Trudy and plenty of pocket cash from tips. Despite his best attempts, however, Emma still manages to get him drunk, encouraging the locals to buy him round after round until he’s hazy with alcohol. 

 

“You gonna tell me what you’re running from?” she finally asks as they count out the tip jar together, the strong scent of Pine-Sol burning in their noses from the freshly-mopped floor. “And don’t try to feed me some line, Sam. You been working like the ground will swallow you up if you don’t. You don’t give any of the gals - or guys - around here a second glance though most of ‘em have done plenty of lookin’ of their own.” 

 

Bundling a stack of ones together, Sam tries to dig for words. There’s nothing that encompasses everything between himself and Dean, and no way to tell the whole truth but part of him wants to try. 

 

“Dean and I,” he starts, having to swallow down the lump that creeps up as soon as he stars. “We’ve been together for a long time. And we’ve been through a lot of stuff together, good and bad, but mostly bad.” 

 

He’s quiet for another moment, and Emma gives him the time, her dainty hands running bills through them so fast they’re nearly a blurr. 

 

“We lost someone important to both of us, not that long ago; and there’s been . . . a lot of shit that’s happened since that neither of us really dealt with, you know? We made bad choices and we thought we were doing the right things at the time and neither of us could admit that maybe we were. Wrong. We let it come between us and I just. I couldn’t take it anymore. The fighting, the guilt, the anger - it was changing both of us and I hated to see what it was doing to Dean. And I hated who it made me, sometimes.” 

 

Sam’s throat is more than a little tight when he’s done, and he’s grateful when Emmy lets him duck his head to gather himself before she reaches out to touch him, patting his arm gently before going back to her stack of bills. 

 

“Sounds like maybe you did the right thing. You think you’ll ever go back?” 

 

“I dunno. Who knows if he’d - if he’d even want me back, you know?” 

 

“Yeah. But Sam? You’ll never find out if you don’t try. And if you don’t try . . . you might regret that when it’s too late.” 

 

Tucking his share of the tips into his hands, Emma leans in to peck him gently on the cheek before shooing him out the door. Sam’s got the next day off, so he stays up maybe later than he should, staring at Dean’s contact in his phone. 

 

It’s not a surprise when it rings and goes to voicemail; after all its nearly 4 am and even Dean doesn’t normally stay out this late. Sam just leaves a quick “Call me? Please?”, dropping the phone on the bedside before rolling over and passing out. 

 

* * *

 

Sam’s phone doesn’t ring until almost one in the afternoon the next day. He’s tinkering with the AC unit in the window, trying to coax a little more cold air out of it to at least last him until winter gets here. Dean’s name is on the readout, and Sam almost waits too long before picking up. 

 

“Sam.” 

 

“Dean, um. Hey.”

 

There’s a moment of silence on both ends before Dean chuckles and sighs. “So this is awkward. You alright?” 

 

“Hungover but yeah. I’m good. You?” 

 

“Yeah, I know that story. Listen I’m ah. I’m on my way to a case right now with Rufus. There’s a shifter stirrin’ up trouble in Michigan. I can . . . let you know when I’m done, maybe swing by if you got time?” 

 

“That sounds,” Sam has to pause to swallow a little, closing his eyes against the tears that come just from hearing Dean’s voice. “That sounds good. I’m in South Dakota. Over west, close to the Nebraska line. I’ll give you directions when you finish up?” 

 

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is soft now, almost tender. “I’ll call again when we’re done. Shouldn’t be too hard, dumb thing’s making a mess. It’s a wonder somebody closer hasn’t taken care of it already.” 

 

“Alright. Dean . . . be careful, okay?” 

 

“Yeah, Sammy. I will. See you soon.” 

 

Sam buries himself back in his project, ignoring the way the now-cold air from the air conditioner vents chills his damp cheeks as he puts the unit back together. 

 

* * *

 

This Friday is slow, too slow for Sam’s liking. He wanders down aisles to stock, front, and dust, needing to keep busy as the itching anxiousness grows under his skin. The growl of engines keeps him on edge as young and old alike cruise their classic cars through town, showing them off before the car show later in the afternoon. None are right, the sound of the Impala so ingrained in Sam it might as well be carved into his bones. None of them can be the car, because it’s been nearly a week and Dean hasn’t called him back, hasn’t texted him even though Sam sent him the name of the town and hotel two nights ago. 

 

They close the store early on Saturday, Sam accepting a free ticket from Laura to get into the rodeo so he won’t go stir-crazy sitting in his lonely motel room. He dresses in his regular flannel and jeans, a look that actually lets him fit in here among the ranchers and farmers and cowboys. Sam’s busted up knuckles and scars don’t stand out as much, nor does the muscle of his body; there’s more than one rumor floating around about him being an army vet, he knows.

 

“Folks figure that’s why you’re so jumpy, you know?” Emma had explained quietly one day. “It’s not anyone’s business, of course, but you know how people talk around here.” 

 

Sam thinks maybe that’s why so many people are kind but distant with him; either way, it gives him the space he thinks he needs and a quiet niche in this small town to inhabit. 

 

A ridge rises along the western slope above the arena, and Sam manages to back his truck into a spot near the end. It’s a good view, high enough to see over the fences and shaded some by the crest of the hill behind. He’s got a cooler, like most, newer than the old green beast that lived in the Impala’s trunk but beat up from rattling around in the back of the pickup. 

 

There’s no craft beer to be had in a town like this, nothing with the real hoppy bite that Sam likes, but ice-cold Bud is good and cheap enough to settle in and watch a rodeo with. He doesn’t know all that much about the events, but catches on as he goes. Good rides and quick ties get his adrenaline up, and he claps from the bed of his pickup along with the rest of the crowd. 

 

Beer doesn’t do much for getting him buzzed, but it does leave him almost unsatisfyingly full. The scent of cooking meat lures him down the slope to the concessions stand, where a few dollars gets him chips and a couple of burgers that are still steaming when he gets back to his truck - not that he has time to appreciate it. 

 

Dean - a little bruised and battered, but still in one piece - is leaning against the the banged up fender of Sam’s truck. He’s got a can dangling in his fingers, and a wary smile on his face. 

 

“Hey, Sammy. Got your text. I thought I - well. I’m sorry I didn’t call.” 

 

Maybe it’s the Winchester in him, but Sam finds himself pushing his brother around the pickup, shoving him hard up against the cab and kissing him in the protective dark. 

 

“You jerk,” he breathes when they break away. Hands are fisted white-knuckled into fabric, their faces close enough that warm breath heats the air between them. “God I thought -” 

 

“Sorry. Damn, I’m sorry, Sam.” 

 

Dean’s arms feel good around him, solid, safe, and warm. It’s like Dean’s breathed life right back into the world, shoving away the clinging haze Sam’s found himself in ever since he walked away from the hunt in Massachusetts. Air prickles crisp along all the places Dean’s not touching him, fizzing carbonation hisses behind them from Dean’s discarded beer, and the bitter taste of cigarette lingers on Sam’s lips from Dean’s mouth. 

 

There is so much Sam wants to say that he doesn't know where to start, and Dean seems to be facing the same problem. They stare at each other in the dark, practiced eyes roving over familiar bodies, instinctively checking for injury and finding nothing dire. 

 

“You wanna . . .” Sam gestures toward the arena, just as another cheer goes up from the crowd. Bareback broncs and bull riding are still left for the program, and, really, the familiarity of relaxing together might do them good. 

 

“Sure. Just let me pull Baby up closer.” 

 

Sam blushes a little when the roar of the Impala turns the heads of people nearby, but the dark is kind enough to hide his embarrassment. Her hood gleams in the dark as Dean eases her up next to Sam’s truck, and some of the homesickness that’s been lingering in Sam’s chest unwinds. 

 

“Bobby woulda sent you with this old rattletrap,” Dean mumbles, hauling himself up onto the tailgate so his boots just scuff the weeds and dirt below. “M’amazed this thing still runs.” 

 

“You rebuilt this one.” Realization hits Sam like a ton of bricks, and he gingerly runs a hand over the metal. 

 

“Yeah. Kinda.” Dean just shrugs, turning his attention to the flags racing by as girls on saddleback advertise the local sponsors of the next event. “Bobby must’ve thought it was good enough, anyway.” 

 

Knowing that he’d had something of Dean with him all along makes Sam ache and leaves him feeling sappy all at once. He wonders if Bobby realized, if Bobby intended - but who knows. The old man always had his own reasoning for things, and the truck has run like the old gem it is ever since Sam pulled it out of the salvage yard. 

 

Side by side, the brothers settle themselves on the tailgate, Dean popping open cans for them both. It feels like normal. It feels like always. Dean’s arm is warm where it brushes up against Sam’s, his boots just scuffing the grass below them as his legs swing. 

 

“This what you been up to? Blending in with the locals?” It could be snide, but it isn’t. Dean’s question is honest, if hesitant, yet Sam’s still not sure how to start. 

 

“I guess. Been working. Got a job at the bar, enough to pay for gas and a room at the motel. First time I’ve really been out besides that.” He doesn’t know how to talk about the depression, the loneliness, the haze he’s been living in, but the way Dean’s jaw goes tight tells him that maybe his brother gets it. 

 

“Yeah. Always work to do, huh?” 

 

“Yeah.” They’re quiet for a while, watching as one rider gets thrown and another manages to stick it. “You, um. You stayin’ around?” 

 

“Are you?” Dean asks softly. 

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“Maybe . . . we can take tonight? Just to be together. To be us. And we can talk about it later?” 

 

They’ve never been good at talking, and now is no exception. It’s a tempting offer; Sam, more than once, has thought he’d give anything to not sleep alone and he can’t bring himself to turn Dean down. 

 

“Alright. Dean, I don’t think I - I don’t know if we should -” 

 

“We don’t have to,” Dean murmurs, nudging Sam’s shoulder with his own. “I don’t expect sex, Sam. I just . . . want to be with you.” 

 

Sam bumps him back, the most affection they’re willing to risk here. The rodeo winds down around 10, just as the band in the fair building picks up and streams of cars head out of the lot as trickles of people make their way from the stands to the dance. 

 

Hopping down off the tailgate, Sam slams it shut, gathering their empties and tossing them in the back. Dean starts up the Impala as Sam pulls his truck out, and they caravan the short distance from the rodeo grounds into town. For the first time, Sam’s conscious of the mess that his room’s become over the days and weeks he’s spent here, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind the mess. He drops his duffle next to Sam’s, and they settle in to the familiar pattern of their bedtime routine. 

 

“You work tomorrow?” Dean asks softly when Sam’s curled up against his side. 

 

“No. Not ‘til Monday.” 

 

“Good.” 

 

Sam’s asleep sooner than he’d like, but he sleeps better than he has in months. 

 

* * *

 

“Morning, sunshine.” 

 

Grumbling a little at being woken, Sam sighs as Dean combs gentle fingers through his hair. He’s warm and comfortable, relaxed with Dean here and Sam knows that - regardless of whatever else may happen between them - he’s going back on the road with his brother. 

 

“I need a week. Maybe two.” The hand in his hair stills. 

 

“Sam?” 

 

“To quit. At the store and the bar. I don’t . . . Trudy and Susan have been good to me, you know? I don’t want to just skip town.” 

 

“You’re coming with me?” The bed shifts as Dean sits up, and Sam opens his eyes to look up at his brother. Green eyes are fixed desperately on him, searching Sam’s expression for any hint of the doubt he doesn’t feel. 

 

“Yeah. That okay?” 

 

“Jesus, Sammy, of course it is.” Calloused fingertips dance across Sam’s cheek, down his jaw, and he follows them up to gently meet Dean’s mouth. 

 

“It was . . . I needed this, I think. I-I’m sorry I left, but-” Drawing in a stuttery breath, Sam takes a moment to settle himself. “I needed this. But I’m not right here. I don’t fit and I -” He couldn’t feel much of anything, but there’s no way to explain the haze and how it’s already lifted with Dean around. 

 

“It’s alright, Sammy. It’s okay,” Dean keeps his voice soft, his mouth, too, and Sam sighs into the kiss. “You take however long you need. We don’t have anywhere to be.” 

 

Tugging Dean down, Sam curls up with his head resting on his brother’s chest. They don’t have anywhere to be, and there’s something that feels right about that.


End file.
